De Vaux had calmed himself as much as he possibly could; and as he was
not blessed with a face possessing that general expression of jocund
felicity which is usually denominated a smiling countenance, whatever
degree of gravity and care was left in his look at present excited no
particular notice in the drawing-room, whither his steps were first
directed. The party there assembled now consisted of Mrs. Falkland and
her daughter, with Colonel Manners; and the latter alone saw that the
agitation which he had beheld the gipsy's letter produce in his friend
had ended in permanent distress.
"Where is Marian?" said De Vaux, as he entered, not very much
disappointed, perhaps, to find that she was not with the rest of the
family; "where is Marian?--do you know, Isadore?"
"I left her drawing in the little saloon at the other end of the
house," replied Isadore; "but that was a full hour ago, Edward; and if
she expected a gay knight or wandering troubadour to come and sooth
her, either with his _gaie science_ or his _bien dire_, she may have
left her solitude by this time in disappointment."
De Vaux smiled somewhat bitterly, as he felt how much more painfully
he had been employed than he would have been in the occupations to
which Isadore referred; and, again leaving the drawing-room, he sped
along the same passages which, with a light and bounding heart, he had
often trod in search of her upon some joyous errand whom he now sought
with feelings of care, anxiety, and sorrow. Marian was still where her
cousin Isadore had left her; and though, perhaps, she did think that
De Vaux might have found her out sooner, when he had no ostensible
motive for being absent from the side of her he loved, yet, like a
wise girl, she received him with as sweet a smile as if no such slight
reproach had ever crossed her fancy. The next moment she rejoiced that
she had done so; for the expression of anguish in her lover's eyes did
not escape her, and she felt at once that, for whatever other
occupation De Vaux had yielded the pleasure of her society, it was for
no agreeable one.
"Look at this drawing, Edward," she said, as he came in: "do you not
think that I have made my hermit look very melancholy sitting on that
rock?"
"Not so melancholy as my thoughts, dear Marian," replied De Vaux,
gazing over her shoulder, apparently at the drawing, but in truth
hardly seeing a line that the paper contained; "not so melancholy as
my thoughts."
"And what has occurred to make them so, Edward?" she asked, turning
round to read the answer in his face before his lips could reply.
"Surely, I have a right to know, if any one has, what it is that makes
you unhappy."
"You have, dear Marian, you have," he replied; "and I have sought you
out here to make you share in all I feel, though the task be a painful
one. But come here, and sit with me on the sofa by the window, and I
will tell you all." And, taking her by the hand, he led her on towards
one of the windows that looked out over the park; for, however strange
it may be, there are undoubtedly particular positions and particular
situations in which one can tell a disagreeable story more easily than
in others.
Marian was alarmed, and she was agitated, too, within; for she
suffered not her agitation to appear upon the surface when she could
help it; and, as is very natural, she anxiously strove to arrive at
some leading fact as quick as possible. "Something must have occurred
very lately, Edward," she said, "for you were very gay and cheerful
during our ride this morning. Have you heard any thing from your
father to distress you?"
"No, dearest girl," he answered, "I have heard nothing from him; but I
have heard from some one else much that distresses me: but I had
better show you what I have received, which will explain the matter
more briefly than I could do."
So saying, he placed the gipsy's letter in her hand. Marian took it,
and read it through; but, as she knew none of the circumstances which
tended in the mind of De Vaux to corroborate the doubts insinuated by
the letter, she viewed its contents in a different light; and,
returning it with a smile, she asked, "And is that all that has made
you uneasy, Edward? But it is evidently all nonsense, my dear cousin.
If that foolish man, who teased me so much two years ago, were not out
of the country, I should think it was a plan of his to annoy you; but
depend upon it, that this is the trick of some one who wishes to
disturb our happiness. What have we to do with gipsies, Edward? and
how could gipsies know any thing about you and me, unless they were
instructed by somebody else? And if any person in our own rank had
real information, they would of course bring it forward themselves,
and not send it through a set of gipsies."
"You argue well, Marian," answered De Vaux, "and I would fain believe
that you argue rightly; but I am sorry to tell you that several things
have previously occurred, which tend to confirm the assertions
contained in this."
Marian turned a little pale from anxiety for him she loved. "Tell me
all, Edward," she said, "tell me all; I am sure you will conceal
nothing from me."
"Nothing that I know, indeed, Marian," he answered: "I came with the
purpose of opening my whole thoughts to you; for you have every right,
that either true love or our mutual situation can give you, to know
every thing that I know. Well, then, my beloved, the fact which most
completely tends to corroborate the assertions in this letter,
occurred in a conversation between myself and my father yesterday
morning. It was when he was angry in regard to his unfortunate quarrel
with Manners and my opposition of the view he had taken: and he said
sternly, and bitterly enough, that though the estates were entailed, I
could be deprived of them by a word."
"Indeed!" said Marian, thoughtfully, "indeed!" but the next moment she
added, "No, no, Edward, it must have been said in a moment of
passion, without reason, and without truth. Depend upon it, your
father and my uncle would never have spoken about our marriage to me,
and to all my mother's family, as he has often done, calling you
somewhat particularly the heir of his titles and estates, if you were
neither, as that letter says."
"But yet the letter and his words confirm each other," said De Vaux:
"they both tell the same tale, dear Marian. Many a true word is spoken
in a moment of passion, that a man has concealed for years, and would
give worlds afterward to recall. Besides, I think I have heard the
name of this Pharold before: have you not heard my aunt speak of some
gipsy boy that my grandfather wished to educate?"
"Oh, no, not my aunt," answered Marian. "All that happened when she
was very young, quite a child, I believe. It was poor Mrs. Dickinson,
the old housekeeper, who used to tell us stories about that gipsy when
we were children; and his name was Pharold, I think. She spoke of him
as of a fine creature, but very wild."
"You see, dear Marian," said De Vaux, with a gloomy smile, "everything
tends to the same result. My father's words confirm the story of the
gipsy, and what we know of the gipsy would show that he had some
acquaintance with the history of our family."
Marian mused: "It is very strange, Edward," she said at length, "and I
suppose there must, indeed, be some foundation for all this. But yet I
cannot understand it: if the estates are entailed, what is there on
earth that can prevent your inheriting them? If the title goes to the
sons, you must have it; and if it had gone to the daughters, I must
have had it, you know, which would have been all the same thing. If
you do believe this story, as I am afraid you do, tell me how it can
be."
Edward de Vaux paused; for he had never calculated upon going further,
or being more explicit than he had been. He had thought it would be
enough to explain that he was likely to lose the lands and honours of
Dewry, and that Marian would naturally draw her own conclusion, and
perceive the only cause which could produce such a result. Her
question, therefore, embarrassed him, for he would willingly have
sealed his lips upon his mother's shame; and, though he had felt
himself bound to tell her all he was likely to lose, without
concealment, yet he hesitated at revealing the most painful part of
his own suspicions, till those suspicions had been rendered
certainties.
Marian saw him hesitate, and raising her beautiful eyes to his face,
she said, "Edward, you have promised to tell me all, and you must make
it all you think, as well as all you know."
It was not to be resisted. "Well, beloved, well!" he said, "I will,
though it is very, very terrible to do so; and, in truth, I hardly
know how to do it. Marian, did you ever see my mother?"
"No, Edward, never that I know of," she replied: "why do you ask?"
"Did you ever hear my aunt speak of her?" continued De Vaux, without
replying to her question.
"Let me think," said Marian. "I believe I have: but no, I cannot
remember that I ever did, now I reflect upon it: no, I never did."
"Nor my father either?" asked De Vaux.
"No, never; certainly never," answered Marian.
"Well, then--" said De Vaux, and he paused abruptly, fixing his eyes
upon her face. Instantly a colour of the deepest crimson rushed up
over the whole countenance of Marian de Vaux, dying cheek, and neck,
and forehead with the blush of generous shame--the shame that every
pure, virtuous, inexperienced woman feels when the idea of vice in her
own sex is suddenly brought before her.
Edward de Vaux turned deadly pale, as he both perceived that Marian
had now caught his meaning, and comprehended most painfully the
feelings in which that bright blush arose. The shame that Marian felt
for the degradation of her sex touched the most agonized spot in De
Vaux's heart. All that hatred for vice, and scorn for the vicious, and
the pity which comes near contempt, could produce in a woman's bosom,
seemed to De Vaux expressed by that blush, and pointed, more or less
directly, towards himself; and, as I have said, he turned very pale.
The deep emotion that he felt overpowered him for an instant; but then
he made a great exertion, and, rising from the sofa, "Marian," he
said, "I have now told you all, even to my innermost thoughts; and I
have but one word to add, my dear, dear cousin. Nearly three years
ago, you assured me of your love, and promised me your hand; and every
member of your family willingly consented to our ultimate union; but
then I was the Honourable Edward de Vaux, the heir to one of the most
ancient peerages in England, and to twenty thousand per annum. Things
have now changed; and, if the assertions in this letter, and my own
suspicions be correct, I am now a nameless, illegitimate beggar,
without a right to any thing on earth but my sword and my
reputation--with shame upon my mother's head--with nothing to claim
from my father, and without even a name that I can offer you. Under
these circumstances, though I shall love you to the last day of my
life, and think of you through every moment in the whole course of
time, I give you back your promise, I free you from all engagement,
and leave you totally untied to a connection from which your friends
will naturally be glad enough to separate you."
He spoke calmly, slowly, and distinctly; but the deadly paleness of
his countenance showed how deeply he was moved at heart; and Marian
gazed upon him, with her long dark eyelashes raised high, her
beautiful eyes full upon his face, and her lip slightly trembling
while he went on. As soon as he had ceased, she rose from the sofa,
and, with agitation and ardour, all unlike her usual calmness, cast
herself at once upon his bosom, with her arms circling his neck, her
lips pressed upon his cheek, and her tears falling rapidly upon
him.--"Edward, Edward!" she cried, "I am yours--all yours! Could
you--could you do such injustice to your own Marian? You have given me
back my promise, and I here give it you again--so that, whatever
comes, I may never hear from any one a single word against our union.
Nay, nay, let me speak--it is seldom that I am vehement; but I must
speak now--you have my promise, most solemnly, most strictly; and I
consider myself as much bound to you as if I were your wife. Not only
shall no other person upon earth ever have my hand, but, whatever
happens, and whoever opposes it, you shall have it, when and where you
choose to ask it."
Need I say how tenderly he pressed her to his heart? Need I say how
ardently, how sincerely he thanked her? But still there was some
slight hesitation in his mind. He almost doubted that she fully
appreciated his situation, and he felt that he could not receive such
a promise as she had made till she comprehended all. He bade her
think, then, of the whole; and conjured her to remember, that it was
not alone the loss of name and station, but that, if his anticipations
were correct, every thing like wealth, or even competence, would also
be lost to him.
But all Marian's reserve was now gone, and the long-restrained
feelings of her heart flowed forth all together. "Nay, nay, Edward,"
she said, again seating herself on the sofa, without, however,
withdrawing the small soft hand he held in his; "nay, nay, Edward,
have I not enough for us both? enough to give us every comfort? Nay,
every luxury that we ought to have we shall still possess; and why
need we wish for more? Do you think that the coach-and-six, and the
golden-coated coachman, and the three lackeys on the footboard ever
entered into my calculations of happiness?"
"No; but, dearest Marian," he replied, "it is only painful to me to
think that I bring nothing to unite to your property. Your large
fortune renders it only the more necessary that I should have one
too--"
"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Marian, eagerly: but still he went on: "I
have to owe you every thing, Marian; love, and happiness, and rank,
and station, and fortune too."
"And will you, Edward, _you_ talk so proudly to Marian de Vaux?" she
exclaimed. "Will you be too haughty to enjoy all the blessings that we
possess, because it is Marian that gives them? Is not that which is
mine yours? Has it not been so since we were children? Do not distress
me, Edward, by one thought of such a kind. Indeed, I shall think you
do not love me--that you are going to refuse my offered hand."
"Oh, Marian, Marian!" he cried, kissing it a thousand times, while
something very bright, and not unlike a tear, glittered in his eye. "I
would not lose it for a thousand worlds! Distress you! dearest girl! I
grieve to have distressed you for a moment; but I felt myself bound to
tell you all."
"Oh, that does not distress me at all," replied Marian; "the only
thing that could distress me would be to see you grieve, or to think
that you should make a difference, even in thought, between what is
yours and what is mine. I declare, Edward, I never knew what it was to
feel glad of a large fortune before; but now I am thankful, not only
for what my mother left me, but for every shilling that my good old
granduncle and guardian has scraped together for me, by his economy
thereof. Three thousand a year, Edward--consider, we shall be as rich
as princes; and if it had not been for that, this misfortune might
have obliged us to wait on for many a year, till you had made a
fortune in India, and very likely have lost your health, which no
fortune could have compensated."
Marian de Vaux spoke in a manner totally different from that which her
cousin had seen her display for many a year. Her beautiful eyes were
full of light and feeling; a smile, half-tender, half-playful, hovered
over her lip, and her voice was full of eager kindness and thrilling
affection. He had remembered her thus as a girl; but, as she had grown
up towards womanhood, either the feelings which had animated her bosom
with such a warm and enthusiastic glow had passed away, or the
expression of them had been gradually suppressed. Now, again, she was
all that he remembered her, and to see her so, plunged him into a
sweet vision of the past--connected, though by some fine golden
threads, with the present. He had seated himself on the sofa beside
her, and, still holding her right hand in his, he had glided his left
arm round her waist, and then, with his eyes fixed on a distant spot
of the floor, he remained in silence for two or three moments after
she had done speaking. Unless man were a cold unfeeling piece of
ticking mechanism, like a watch, our measures of time would always be
by our sensations: and as Marian had at that moment given way to all
the eagerness of her heart, the two moments that Edward de Vaux
remained in thought seemed to her an age. "What is the matter,
Edward?" she said. "Are you still unhappy?"
"No, my beloved," he answered, looking up in her face with a glance
that fully confirmed his words,--"no, my beloved; I am most happy! so
happy, indeed, that, were I placed as I was before, I would almost
again undergo the pain which this discovery first caused me, to enjoy
the delight which my Marian's conduct has bestowed."
"And did you doubt what that conduct would be, Edward?" she demanded,
half-reproachfully. Edward de Vaux coloured, and might have hesitated;
for conscience, that bitter smiter, who always finds his time to apply
the lash, now struck him severely for all those images which an
irritable fancy had suggested concerning Marian's conduct. But she
saved him the pain of a reply, which must either have been mortifying
or insincere. "And did you doubt what my conduct would be?" she asked;
and in the next moment she added, "But never mind, dear Edward; you
see what it is, and do never doubt it again."
"I will never doubt, as long as I live, my own beloved girl," he
answered, ardently; "I will never doubt, as long as I live, that it
will on every occasion be all that is good, and noble, and generous:
but it was not that alone, my Marian, that made me so happy--so very,
very happy."
"What was it, then, dear Edward," she asked, in some surprise; for
Marian, with all the quickness of a woman's perception, had noticed
the passing colour that came into De Vaux's cheek; and knowing him,
and all the little intricacies of his heart, better than he
thought--better, perhaps, than she thought herself--she had instantly
set down the blush to its right cause, and said, in her own heart,
"Edward has been tormenting himself with fancies." Now, however, his
words puzzled her, though a latent consciousness of having--in the
urgency of the moment, and in the desire to sooth and render Edward
patient under his misfortune--a latent consciousness of having given
free course to feelings and enthusiasms which she had long held close
prisoners in her bosom, made her now feel embarrassed in turn; and a
bright warm blush, partly from curiosity, partly from that
consciousness, mantled for a moment in her cheek.
Edward de Vaux gazed upon her as she put her question with a smile,
full of deep fond affection--with a sort of triumphant happiness, too,
in his look that made her inclined, she knew not why, to hide her eyes
upon his bosom, as she had done long ago, when first she had
acknowledged to him the love that he had won, and witnessed the joy
that it called up in his countenance. "I will tell you what it is,
dearest," he answered, "that makes me now so happy, that I should have
considered anything but yourself a light sacrifice to obtain such joy.
It is, that the misfortune which has befallen me has called forth my
beloved Marian's true and natural character, and shown her to me
fully, as the same dear, excellent, feeling, enthusiastic girl that I
have always pictured her to my own imagination--such as her feelings
as a child gave promise that she would be--such as I remember her
appearing constantly, not many years ago."
Marian blushed, and looked down; and there was a swimming moisture in
her eyes, which a little more might have caused to overflow in tears:
but they would not have been unhappy ones. She felt--
But it is difficult to say what she felt. It was not that she felt
detected, for that word would imply a shade of culpability which she
did not feel; but she felt that she had betrayed herself--that a veil
which she had cast over the true features of her mind, from many a
deep and complicated motive, had been raised--had been snatched away,
and could never be dropped effectually again. The effect which the
raising of that veil had produced was all glad and gratifying, it is
true; but still there was that fluttering emotion at her heart, which
the disclosure of long-hidden feelings must always produce: she felt
as if she had told her love for the first time over again; and she
knew, too, that she might be called upon to assign motives, and give
reasons, which would be difficult to explain, but which she determined
not to withhold, for many a good and sufficient cause. But all this
agitated her. She blushed, she almost trembled; and Edward de Vaux was
but the more convinced, from the agitation which he beheld, that the
concealment of her real character, and the repression of her finest
feelings, had been a conscious and voluntary act on the part of her he
loved.
He became curious, as well he might be, to learn more; and, as Marian
still sat silently beside him, he tried the tacit persuasion of a
gentle kiss upon the blushing cheek, that almost touched his shoulder.
She turned round towards him with a thoughtful smile; but, as she did
not speak, he asked more boldly, "Why, Marian, why, dearest, after
having given me your love, and promised me your hand, have you let
that dear little heart play at hide and seek with me, till I have
sometimes almost doubted whether it was my own?"
"You should not have doubted that, De Vaux," Marian answered; "but if
you really wish to know why I have somewhat changed my conduct since I
was a girl, and why I have, in some degree, repressed feelings that I
have not experienced the less warmly, I will let you into some of the
secrets of a woman's heart; but you must promise me, Edward, never to
abuse the trust," she added, smiling more gaily; "and you must
promise, too, not to be angry with any thing I shall say."
"Angry! angry with you, Marian!" said De Vaux; "do not believe such a
thing possible."
Marian smiled again, for there is often a sort of prophetic
presentiment in the breast of woman, which teaches her that, however
much she may rule and command the lover, the husband will not receive
the power in vain; and, perhaps, it is this knowledge of the shortness
of their reign which sometimes makes women abuse it a little while it
lasts. Marian smiled again at De Vaux's words, and then replied,
"Well, then, Edward, keep your part of the compact, and I will tell
you all. You say I have changed very much since I was a girl; and that
is but natural, Edward; for, depend upon it, every woman does change,
if she feels and thinks at all deeply. As a girl, her words and her
actions are all of but little importance in the eyes of those around
her, or in her own, unless she be nourished in conceit and affectation
from her cradle; and, during the first fifteen or sixteen years of her
life, though she may be taught to act like a lady, yet she sees no
reason for concealing anything she feels, or anything she thinks, if
it be not likely to hurt the feelings of others. As she goes on
towards womanhood, however, the world changes its conduct towards her,
and she finds it necessary to change towards it. She learns to look
upon trifles in her own conduct, and in the conduct of others towards
her, as matters of importance: the world and society assume a
different aspect she trembles lest she should say, or do, or feel what
is wrong; and very often she expresses too little of what she feels,
lest she should express too much. Then, too, Edward," continued
Marian, with the colour which had partly left her cheek while she
spoke coming richly up again, and spreading over her whole face,
"then, too, Edward, if she learns to love, all those fears and
apprehensions are a thousand-fold increased. She is terrified at her
own sensations, and almost thinks it wrong and sacrilegious to suffer
that one being by whom her affections are won to take that station in
her heart, above all the rest of the world, which she has hitherto
devoted solely to a being beyond the world. Perhaps before that time
she may have longed to love and be beloved; but the first moment she
feels that it is so--especially if it come upon her suddenly--depend
upon it, her feelings are more or less those of terror."
De Vaux smiled, but his hand pressed tenderly upon Marian's as he did
so; and she felt it was as much a smile of thanks, as if he had
accompanied it with words of ever so much gratitude for the picture of
her feelings that she had given him. She paused, however, for she was
coming to matter which she feared might not please him so well; and
his thoughts turning, too, in the same direction, he said, after
waiting for a few moments to see if she would go on, "But, dear
Marian, this happens to every woman without producing such a change as
I have seen in you; and besides, what I have seen to-day, Marian, has
shown me fully that there has been some more distinct and individual
motive. Tell it me, Marian, tell it me, my beloved; and, believe me, I
will not abuse your confidence."
"Nor be angry?" she said, smiling again. "Remember, that it is a
principal part of our agreement. Well, then, I will go on. When first
we were engaged to each other, Edward, my chief thought--as, indeed,
it ever has been since--was how to make the man I loved most
completely happy, as far as my own conduct was concerned; and I was
reading at that time a very clever book, which recommended women, on
their marriage, to study, not alone the general character of their
husband, but all his individual opinions and thoughts, in order to
make their own behaviour completely conformable thereto; it asserted,
also, that such was the surest way of winning happiness for both. I
believed it, and resolved to try to follow the advice even before
marriage. I listened to every thing you said, concerning the conduct
of other women that we knew, with a determination of trying to acquire
the qualities that you praised, and to avoid all that you blamed."
"But, good God! my dearest Marian!" exclaimed Edward, warmly, "surely
I did not blame them for suffering the beauties or the excellences of
their natural characters to appear, nor praise them for assuming a
coldness that was the most opposed to the general warmth of their
nature?"
"Not exactly, Edward," replied Marian; "but I will tell you what you
did, which came much to the same purpose. Though whatever I did seemed
to give you pleasure, yet, when you spoke of any of our acquaintance,
you were so severe upon what appeared to me very slight mistakes in
their demeanour; you were so rigid in your ideas of what was right in
general behaviour; you even once censured so heavily a display, rather
too open, of attachment to her husband, on the part of a lady whom we
both knew, that I began to find that your opinions on such subjects
were very nice indeed: and knowing," added Marian, with a smile, which
De Vaux felt fully, "and knowing that my lover, with these nice
opinions, was peculiarly sensitive to every thing that he thought
could draw the slightest degree of ridicule upon him or his, I
determined so to school my own conduct, and to repress the expression
of my own feelings, as to ensure his heart against the slightest
annoyance, concerning a word, or a movement, or a look of his wife."
Marian paused, and Edward de Vaux, with his eyes bent upon the ground,
remained silent for two or three minutes, till she became alarmed.
"You promised me, Edward," she said, "not to be angry."
"Not to be angry with you, my beloved girl," he said; "but I did not
promise not to be angry with myself; and well, well do I deserve it."
"Nay, nor must you be angry with yourself either, Edward," replied
Marian; "if you are, I shall still think some of it lights upon me.
If, in seeking the means of rendering you happy, I have made you
unhappy, I shall meet with punishment instead of reward."
"Dearest Marian," answered De Vaux, "it were vain to deny it. I have
been a fastidious fool hitherto; and, like the other sneerers of this
world, have been seeking the mote in my brother's eye, while I have
forgot the beam in my own. But henceforth I will take example by you,
dearest Marian, and so school my own heart as to get over that feeling
of the ridiculous in others, and terror for it in myself, which I now
find and believe to be a vice and not a quality."
Marian shook her head with a doubtful smile, as if she would have
said, "It is in your nature, Edward."
"I will, indeed, Marian," he continued; "and you shall see what a
strong resolution can do even with Edward de Vaux. But you must
promise me in return, dearest, to reward my efforts, by casting off
the reserve that my foolish fastidiousness has drawn over you. The
qualities of my Marian's heart and mind are too beautiful to be hidden
beneath such a veil."
Marian smiled again, but looked a little thoughtful, for she felt that
the task her lover would impose was no easy one. "I will do my best,
Edward," she said; "but it must be by degrees. In the first place, all
the world would think me mad, if I were to change suddenly from the
quiet still-life demeanour of Marian de Vaux, and take up the gay,
lively, enthusiastic character of Isadore Falkland; and, in the next
place, it would be impossible, for I have now been training myself to
this behaviour so long, that it has become quite habitual to me; and,
whatever are the emotions that I feel at heart, my first effort--even
before I know I am making one--is to keep those emotions from
appearing. Sometimes, indeed," she added, laughing, "they break
through all restraint, as they have done today; but that is only on
great occasions. However, I will do my best to change back again; and,
perhaps, as I have overdone the quiet and composed, I may find the
happy medium, in returning to my old thoughtlessness. But, in the mean
time, Edward, never you be deceived in regard to what I feel. You have
seen the veil, as you call it, cast away; and you know entirely what
is beneath it."
"A thousand, thousand thanks, for letting me see it, Marian," he
replied: "but I can never thank you enough, my beloved, for all that
you have done this day--for showing me your heart, and for giving me a
glimpse, too, of my own."
"But I owe you thanks, too, Edward--deep and many thanks," replied
Marian, "for the generous candour of your conduct; and for not
shrinking, even for a moment, from making me a sharer in your thoughts
and feelings, however painful they might be to communicate. And oh,
Edward, let me entreat you ever to pursue the same course hereafter.
Let me be the sharer of all your thoughts; let me hear every thing
painful or to be feared, from your own lips, and the tale will loose
half its bitterness; and I promise you that, if I cannot assist you
with advice and support, I will not embarrass you by womanly fear, or
weak irresolution."
"I will, Marian, I will!" replied De Vaux; "for I can contemplate no
case in which what I had to communicate would combine half so many
sources of pain and anxiety as that which is just past: and now,
dearest, then, give me your advice in regard to the course I ought to
pursue in investigating this very painful business."
"Do you not think, Edward," said Marian, "that you had better not
investigate it at all? If, by letting it rest, and treating this
information with contempt, you were likely to injure any one, of
course I should say, sift it to the last grain. But it seems that
these people, whoever they are, that send you such disagreeable
tidings, hold out our approaching marriage as the only motive for your
enquiry farther; and, as you have told me the whole without reserve,
and I am perfectly satisfied, I see no reason why you should trouble
yourself further about it. If you are to lose the titles and estates
of your father on any pretext, let the gipsies send their information
to the person who is to benefit by your loss. I would think no more of
it."
De Vaux shook his head, for his vivid imagination and excitable nature
did not fit him for sitting down quietly under such a load of
suspense. "No, no, Marian!" he said; "I could not bear such
uncertainty; I should not know an hour's peace, and whenever a letter
was put into my hand, whenever a stranger desired to speak with me, I
should dread some evil tidings. Investigate thoroughly I must. If I
find these insinuations false, my peace will be established on a surer
rock than ever; and my disposition may not be the worse for the ordeal
I have undergone, and the lessons I have received. If my fears prove
just, and these tidings true, I think, dear Marian--I think," and he
drew her nearer to his heart--"I think that, with the assurance of
such love as yours, I can see all the rest that was bright in my lot
pass away from me without a sigh."
Marian's heart was relieved, for she had doubted how Edward de Vaux
would endure the certainty which might soon be forced upon him, of the
severe reverses which were yet unconfirmed. She had doubted, and, with
all the skilful tenderness of a woman's heart, she had at once
perceived that the most open assurances of her own love were the
surest antidotes that she could offer him against the evils of the
day. She had acted, it is true, by impulse; but there is always some
rapidly operating motive even at the bottom of impulse itself, which,
nine times out of ten, works with wonderful sagacity. There are many
moments in the life of man, when his boasted reason, which is but a
slow and considerate personage, has not time to act, and when, if
there were no power but this same reason to save us from drowning, we
might drown beyond redemption for anything that reason would do to
help us; but God, who gives their never-failing instinct to the
beasts, does not leave man without resource in those moments when
haste, and need, and apprehension render him little better than a
judgment-less animal, and has afforded him also a kind of instinct, a
power which only acts on sudden emergencies, when reason has not time;
which power we call impulse, but which is neither more nor less than
the instinct of a hurry.
Marian de Vaux had, in the first instance, acted on impulse, but as
she went on, finding that impulse was quite right, and that the only
means to sooth and to strengthen her lover under his misfortunes, was
to let him see throughout the full extent of her love for him, she
cast away, as we have seen, every reserve, and showed Edward de Vaux
that he could but lose little, whatever he lost, compared with that
inestimable affection which was still his own.
Marian's heart was relieved by perceiving that her conduct had been
successful, and that De Vaux was nerved against the worst; and, as she
had no particular taste for suspense herself, any more than he had,
she now recalled her words, and advised him, if his feelings were such
as he expressed, to pursue the investigation at once.
"That, Marian, for all our sakes and on every account, I must do,"
he replied; "but the only question with me is, in which way had I
better follow the inquiry. Here are two courses pointed out in this
letter,--to apply at once to my father; or, in the first place, to
visit this gipsy, and to ascertain precisely what information he
possesses. I have already considered, and believe that the latter
course would be the best; but my Marian has every right to guide me."
"Oh! do not go to the gipsy," cried Marian on the first impulse; but
impulse was wrong in this instance, and Marian soon found that it was
so. Edward himself paused, and thought over the matter again; but, on
consideration, Marian remembered many an objection to the plan of
seeking information from Lord Dewry himself. She knew his haughtiness
and his violence, and she knew, too, that De Vaux, tingling under a
sense of degradation, and feeling that such degradation was
attributable to his father, was in no state of mind to submit to the
proud and insulting tone Lord Dewry too often employed, or to speak
calmly and dispassionately upon a subject, in regard to which his
whole heart was bleeding, and every better feeling deeply wounded. She
dreaded the collision which might ensue between the two, and she
thought it also very probable that Lord Dewry might refuse all
information on the subject. "I am afraid I am wrong, Edward," she said
at length; "I have a dread of those gipsies,--I do not know why; but
still, perhaps, you should be more sure that such insinuations as
these are not mere calumny, before you speak to your father about it."
"That is true, my love," replied De Vaux; "and, besides, I have just
remembered that if I wish to have the gipsy's information at all, I
must have it before I see my father. He here in this letter tells me
to come either this evening or to-morrow early. Now, it is too late to
go to my father this evening, and before I could be back, if I went
over to-morrow, the time would be expired and the gipsy gone. I think
my best plan will be, to go early to the gipsy camp to-morrow morning,
hear all the man has to say, and then, if necessary, I can ride over
to the hall and speak with my father ere he goes out."
"Yes, I doubt not that such is the best course," replied Marian; "but
for God's sake, Edward, take care of those gipsies. They are, I
believe, a terrible race of savages; and you told me that this was a
large encampment which you saw in the wood. They might murder you,
Edward, for your purse or your watch."
"Oh, no fear, no fear, dearest!" replied De Vaux; "you see they never
attempted to murder Manners today, though he was there at five or six
in the morning, and his purse is likely to be much better filled than
mine; and as they knew him, and know me, they must know also that his
fortune is larger than mine ever will be."
"But they may have some motive of revenge against you, Edward,"
repeated Marian, contriving to increase her fears most wonderfully by
thinking over them: "they have evidently some greater knowledge of our
situation, and some deeper motive for their conduct, than is apparent;
and may they not wish to entrap you for some purpose of revenge?"
"I never injured one of them by word or deed, Marian," replied De
Vaux; "and if you will consider for a moment, dearest, you will see
that they can have no evil intention, at least, towards my person. In
the first place, they sent the letter by Manners, and therefore must
feel assured that other people will know of my visiting their
encampment; and in the next place, this man, this Pharold, leaves the
matter open to me to come to him, or to speak with my father on the
subject. Had they any design against me, they would have contrived to
convey the letter to me secretly, and would have taken care to tell me
that I could get the information they offer nowhere but from
themselves. Besides, they cannot be sure that I may not make the whole
matter public, and come up with half a dozen companions."
This reasoning calmed Marian de Vaux not a little; but still she was
fearful, and could not banish from her mind a kind of foreboding that
evil would come of Edward's visit to the gipsy. She knew, however,
what absurd things forebodings are; and she felt how natural it was to
be anxious and apprehensive for an object in which all her affections
centred, the moment that a situation of danger presented itself,
without seeking for any supernatural inspirations to justify her
fears. At every reported movement of the armies during her lover's
absence, she had too often felt the same alarm to give any great
weight now to the fear she experienced, against the voice of reason
and conviction; and seeing that De Vaux had every probability on his
side of the argument, she ceased to oppose him by a word.
"At all events, Edward," she said, "for my sake, do not go unarmed:
that precaution cannot be very burdensome."
"Certainly not," replied he, "and I will take my pistols with me, with
all my heart, as well as my sword, if it will give you the slightest
pleasure, Marian; though I am sure, my beloved, I shall have to use
neither."
"Well, you shall do it for my sake, Edward," said Marian; "and I think
that to know it is so will lighten the weight upon you."
De Vaux's answer was the precise one which any other man would have
made in the same situation; and some further conversation ensued of no
great import, in the course of which Marian proposed to her cousin to
make Colonel Manners the companion of his expedition. She understood
fully, however, the objections which, in reply, he urged against
imparting to any one but herself a suspicion which so materially
affected his station in society, his fortune, and even his happiness;
and those objections having been stated to the reader before, it may
be unnecessary to repeat them here. Suffice it to say, that their
conversation continued so long that Marian's toilet for the
dinner-table was far more hurried than her maid approved. Marian,
however, safe in beauty and secure in love, felt that she could go
down to dinner, even if a curl or two did stray from its right place;
and there was something in her heart that made her never regret the
moments given to Edward de Vaux.